Published via Ecency

Big Brush, Little Paper Advertism III 2025. Acrylic on paper, 30 x 24"

By now it should be no secret that I am a failure and behind my time. No secret, but also unbelievable. No one will be able to tell actually, until the last book gets written and I’m a waft ghost. The anonymous autobiography to put a final nail on the Amazon.com cardboard coffin of this dolt nation and its Jeff Bezos overlords. I have no gift for interpreting the future. And like the fool, who stubbornly refuses to let go in order to go insane, I do the same thing over and over expecting the same results. Artistic success is of the Stuckist nature and will be determined sometime after the last morning I get up to paint. Obsession may not be success, but it’s a great fool fuel to the end, I think, for a world silently terrified of its own face in the mirror.

I am in a rut and boiling with rage at what cannot be undone. This pretend freedom I use is stolen. All of us know who is guilty because the enemy has always been anyone who will get us killed. I was born a smoker’s child in 1967, an enemy infant to the Johnson administration, carrying my grandmother’s justice gene, my mother’s OCD and sentimentality, and grandfather Ronald’s Colt 1911, the one with the ivory grips, taken off the face of an elephant who trusted his generation to rid the world of evil, which translated from elephant tongue, always means, “crush these walking pallid potatoes before they nuke all our faces off!”

Speaking of elephants, my stepfather’s best friend was a fighter pilot in Vietnam. When he and his buddies were bored they’d have contests to see how many elephants they could pick off while on sorties to make humanure out of rice farmers.

I would have helped the elephants long ago and gotten myself into a cozy prison if it behaved like a Norwegian one. I love life more than I want to leave it. A pretend, kinder nation like Norway would see to it that I had paints and paper and sun on my face on midsummer’s day. But then, I probably never would have run amok in the first place if leaders in the national spotlight, bolstered by state media, refrained from aiding and abetting genocide in Palestine, or bombing fishermen in the Caribbean hiding coke bottles in their pants just to look good for the ladies. Many American men, eyeballs bubbling in porn tubs, think it’s the end of the world because their President says “Piggy” to a woman reporter, who is probably worse than a piggy because she and her castrated colleagues (called “barrows” in agricultural schools) have all pined to be vetted (which means “become not real”) reporters in the White House, never asking a question that might lead to the sparing of an innocent child’s life.

Well, we don’t live in Norway, though we must, where all people will be well fed and decently housed, and the formation of plastics outlawed, just hours after the bad men and some women get their comeuppance. While Americans plan their next biennial vote for more slavery so stupid and slow, I am on the Internet today begging for a temporary hideaway so I can write the last book before sitting in the dirt, dropping my chin, and breathing on the coming disaster which is so predictable, even to the fool confined to the worst system ever designed by effeminate, white-wiggy, slave-owning sociopaths. I am a latent pacifist warrior king. Don’t give me any more control. Just get me the hell outta here.

I’ve been smoking opium lately, and I thought it would be a great idea for someone with means to support my hide away to write the last book. I need aloneness and shelter. Just a modest income will do, for I have the gout, and brown rice, beans and certain vegetables are my new diet, happily. Alcohol is out, for now, except on special occasions. If you’ve ever had the gout, then you know what I’m talking about. A chair, sturdy table, word processing unit, probably an Internet connection for light research. Snow can happen, and will most likely be beneficial. Let it pile high to the second floor. I won’t need to climb out a window for groceries, not with a pot of beans set to simmer.

Please support my expatriation so I can write out the end of the world. Thank you!

Meanwhile, here is more Advertism while I pipe dream locales which will free me: